


Tarnished Silver

by spockandawe



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: Body Worship, Complicated Relationships, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Sex, Hand Jobs, M/M, Oral Sex, Rope Bondage, Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-05
Updated: 2017-06-05
Packaged: 2018-11-09 07:20:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,456
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11099664
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spockandawe/pseuds/spockandawe
Summary: Mirage takes his time tying you up. Which is—good. It’s good. He doesn’t have to talk to you while he has something else to focus on, and you can watch him laying down the ropes over your plating instead of looking him in the face.It isn’t so bad, both of you existing in company. It was enough to make you think that maybe you could manage alone again. What were you even hoping to do, recapture something of what you used to have? You’re not sure when you got that stupid. Which isn’t— That’s not quite fair. Neither of you have done anythingwrong.Nothing bad has happened. There’s just this uncomfortable, uneasy silence that neither of you are quite managing to fill.





	Tarnished Silver

**Author's Note:**

  * For [applechime](https://archiveofourown.org/users/applechime/gifts).



> [Tumblr](http://spockandawe.tumblr.com/post/161458710891/tarnished-silver-spockandawe-the-transformers)

Mirage takes his time tying you up. Which is—good. It’s good. He doesn’t have to talk to you while he has something else to focus on, and you can watch him laying down the ropes over your plating instead of looking him in the face.

It isn’t so bad, both of you existing in company. It was enough to make you think that maybe you could manage alone again. What were you even hoping to do, recapture something of what you used to have? You’re not sure when you got that stupid. Which isn’t— That’s not quite fair. Neither of you have done anything _wrong._ Nothing bad has happened. There’s just this uncomfortable, uneasy silence that neither of you are quite managing to fill.

Usually, Mirage would be telling you what he’s doing, or giving you instructions to lift your arm, keep your hand there. Today, he’s just working quietly, without a word, moving your limbs himself. And instead of joking along and trying to be a distracting pain in the aft and angling for compliments, you’re just sitting like a lump and avoiding his optics. The tie he did on your ankles was fairly simple, but once he got you kneeling, he’s been using rope after rope on your torso and arms, laying them down in patterns you can tell are more decorative than functional, and the silence just stretches out longer.

You have to wonder if it only ends because he runs out of places to put more rope. Your wrists are crossed behind the back of your neck and your ankles are bound, but he could have done that with maybe a quarter of the rope he used on you. Still, he eventually does pull back, stands, and stretches. You’re almost sick with anticipation, wondering what he’s going to do to you. No limits, you said, just like you’ve always said. That’s a bad enough decision these days just in terms of _you,_ never mind how thoughtless it is in terms of—in terms of you and him.

You still haven’t looked up at his face, you just watch his pedes. He crosses the room, goes to a cabinet. You would have known what he had in there, back before, and you would have been speculating as loudly and obnoxiously as possible about what he had planned for the evening. You can feel those old rhythms, they’re so comfortable and familiar and aren’t _actual_ conversation, not really. But you still can’t quite manage to slip into it. You’re just frozen where you are, staring at the floor, until he comes back and goes to one knee in front of you.

And he’s holding a buffer. That startles you. You stiffen, just a bit. Of all the things you might have expected, that wasn’t one of them. He has paint and polish too. You just look helplessly at the tools. There’s nothing here to object to, even if you _deserved_ to be telling him no right now. But why would he _want_ to do this? He knows how much pain you can handle, how much overstimulation, all of that, why isn’t he just—?

He breaks the silence and you jump again. “Sensory deprivation? The usual?”

You start to say yes, out of plain force of habit, and hesitate. Yes, of course you like this. You always have, But not being able to see, hear, respond, while someone _does things_ to your body, your spark is burning too hot and you can’t stand it, and you hold yourself frozen because you don’t know what you’ll do if you try to respond.

You’re not sure what he reads off your face, but he says, “If you leave your optics on?”

And you can feel yourself relax in the ropes. That’s fine. As long as you can see what’s being done to your frame— that’s fine.

Words still aren’t quite coming to you, but you at least manage a nod. Internally, you disable all audio input. You could let Mirage do it externally, so you can’t switch it back on yourself, but. Maybe next time. His mouth moves, but you can’t hear anything anymore, and just shake your head.

He nods once, places the paint and polish on the floor beside him, and reaches out to touch your leg.

You shiver—which is just sad, how out of practice are you? He just runs his fingers slowly from hip to knee. He’s watching your face, you’re almost sure, but you keep your optics locked on his hand. But he only makes the one pass, and then he brings the buffer to your thigh.

It’s eerie, watching it go and hearing nothing but silence. You can’t see much past the machine and Mirage’s hands, so all you have left is tactile feedback. He’s always had a delicate touch with the tool, and it isn’t any different now. He’s even more fussy about little nicks and scratches than you are, and you’re already looking forward to touching your plating after he’s done with you.

When he finally shifts back, there are a few spots where the buffer wore through your paint. But you don’t even have a chance to examine all the places you can see bare metal before Mirage is back with you, applying white paint to one thigh, then the other. He doesn’t even stop there. He waits, just kneeling there with you while the paint dries, both of you still and motionless for a few quiet kliks. And then he picks up the polish. After that, he sets aside the polish, undoes the coil of rope tied in patterns around the lowest part of your stomach. And then he reaches for the buffer.

It’s luxurious and slow, so slow you can’t stand it. You can’t stand it, but you don’t want it to stop. He undoes and redoes the ropes as he finishes each section of your frame, tying them in new patterns as he lays them down over the freshly polished metal, all while you can’t hear a single sound. When he finally reaches your arms, it’s all so quiet and unreal that you feel like you’re floating

Being able to move again is a shock. You hardly remember _how_ to move, he’s had you like this for so long. Mirage takes your hand to stretch your arm out while he works with the buffer. His hand around yours. Your hand in his. It pulls you out of the drifting, lazy headspace and back into your body. You aren’t watching him work anymore, you’re just staring at his fingers curled around yours. You want to look away, but you can’t. Why is he doing this for you? You don’t _understand._

Your other arm isn’t any easier. You manage not to look at his hand holding yours, but that’s almost worse. All you can do is stare at the floor in front of your knees and think about the way his hand _feels_ against you, every little shift and flex of his fingers, the way your palms press close together as he holds your arm steady.

By the time he finally finishes polishing your arm, you’re so off-balance that at first you don’t even notice him retying your hands behind your neck. Your processor only catches up when he’s finishing the tie and pulling away. He comes around in front of you, and you look up and meet his optics before you remember yourself. He looks—fine. He doesn’t look like anything is wrong. Which. It isn’t. _Frag,_ you’re a mess, it’s good the two of you have been so quiet together, just imagine how much worse you’d make this if you were talking.

He doesn’t hold that gaze for long, he drops his optics to your legs and nudges one pede between your knees. You catch on fast enough and spread your legs as far as you’re able. You have to rock back on your heels and struggle against the ropes, and you still don’t get very far. But you know what you’re doing here, this is old, familiar territory.

Except that Mirage doesn’t move to close in. He takes one slow step backward. Then another. And then you see him flicker out of sight.

That—takes you by surprise. It’s not what you were expecting. This isn’t the first time he’s done that, of course. Not nearly. But it’s another thing that you hadn’t thought he’d want tonight. _Now._

You settle down as best as you can to wait. This isn’t a painful tie or a stressful position to hold. No toys on you or in you. Your panel isn’t even open yet. So you should be able to wait for a good long while. On the other hand, it means you have nothing to distract you while you wait.

You’re expecting to feel invisible hands on your frame any moment. Will he circle around behind you? Or will he gamble on you expecting that, and come at you straight from the front? With your hands behind your neck, your whole torso is wide open, your vents, your windshield, everything. And you’ve still got your legs parted, maybe he’ll just go straight for your array. Is he going to want to ride you? Or maybe he’ll tip you over onto the floor and take you from behind, good and hard.

But he still hasn’t made a move. And he continues to not make a move. You’re waiting and _waiting,_ but there’s nothing. You’re looking around the room, just in case you can spot any little distortions that might give you a clue about where he is, but it’s no good. You could cheat and listen for him, but then he’d _know_ you cheated. Sometimes that’s fun, courting penalty games. But that’s just more territory you’re afraid to step into with him right now.

It lasts long enough that you get tired of looking for him. Which isn’t really saying that much. You were never any good for surveillance work. But even though you’re still braced for him to make a move, your mind starts drifting no matter how hard you try to stay focused.

And that’s funny, you realize, given how long you sat here just letting him go over your frame. That’s different, though. When he’s touching you and moving around you, there’s always something to keep your mind busy. Just enough input that you can really let yourself detach and stop thinking.

That polishing job, though— You look down over your frame, all the bits and pieces you can see past the rope. You’re used to sporting some damage. Being able to do cosmetic maintenance was always a privilege during the war, not any kind of guarantee. You’ve learned to appreciate the little nicks and scrapes that come with a good fight, and you don’t rush to polish them out as fast as you did back when you were young.

They’re all polished out now. You can’t see a single mark on your finish, and even the spots Mirage just repainted blend seamlessly into the rest of your frame. After that polishing job, every bit of your frame looks luxuriously smooth. Between the attention and the ropes, you’ve got a nice charge building up. When you shift in place, nudge your legs the smallest bit wider open, the ropes move over your frame without even the slightest catches. You know firsthand how much work it takes to get you looking this good.

And just like that, all your carefully casual, _fragile_ ease that you’ve been clinging to— It’s gone. You can feel it all fall away from you. You look up, just so you don’t have to look at your frame anymore. You don’t know what your face is doing right now. You don’t know what _any_ of you is doing. It’s good these ropes are here, holding you in place, or it would be obvious just how much you aren’t handling this. More obvious.

You stare as hard as you can into every corner of the room you can see. Nothing. You try twisting around to see behind you, but even as decorative as the ropes are, Mirage has still tied you up well enough that you can’t turn to get a look. Every bit of floor, every bit of wall, you go over it, looking for any misplaced flicker of light, anywhere that the room seems to bend wrong. Still nothing. But your optics eventually drift to the door, and you’re taken by a thought.

Did he just… leave you here? You probably should have noticed if the door opened, but maybe when you were so caught up in staring at your own frame—

It makes some kind of sense. You’ve been wondering why someone would put all this work into you when you don’t deserve it. And you especially don’t deserve it from him. But if his end goal was to get you comfortable (complacent, entitled, selfish) and abandon you here. That’s.

You chase desperately after any possible explanation besides the, the _obvious_ one. Maybe you’re here as a decoration. You’re not a person, you’re just here to look good and be treated like an object. You can work with that, you’ve done similar things before. Negotiated, of course, with some idea of what’s coming, even if you don’t know the specifics. But. Similar. Maybe he’s gone to get someone to show you off to. Haha _hahaha,_ maybe he’s gone to get _Ironhide—_

You’re losing it. You’re losing control of yourself. Where’s Mirage? If he’s here, he’s watching you embarrass yourself. And if he’s gone, he left you. There aren’t any good answers, and you still can’t manage to pull yourself back together, it’s just getting worse and worse. Did he abandon you or is he ignoring you? You deactivate your optics for a moment, but you have to turn them back on right away. The darkness is even harder to handle than the empty room.

And you crack. You don’t even last long before you crack. _“I’m sorry,”_ bursts out of you. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry—”

MR: I know.

He does know, he does already know, this isn’t the first time you’ve been over this ground. You’re repeating yourself. You’re imposing on him. You’re dragging up his bad memories that are all _your_ fault when he never did a single thing wrong. “I’m sorry,” slips out again before you manage to cut yourself off.

MR: You don’t need to keep apologizing.

_I’m sorry,_ you think, though you manage to hold back the words. You curl forward as much as you can. With your hands tied, you can’t hide your face. It’s awful.

And now what are you supposed to do? You can’t apologize, you can’t keep pretending that everything is right between you. You can’t even leave. It’s so miserable you can’t even manage to say a word. You’re just locked up and frozen, and this was all a mistake, and you’re an idiot for ever thinking things might work out between you ever again. Maybe you should ask to go. You’re ruining everything. Unless he wants you for, for—this.

Before you can think better of it, you manage, “Is this a punishment?”

You can see his legs when he comes back into view. Right where he was when you stopped being able to see him. He takes a step towards you and you stare as hard as you can at the floor. No matter what else you do, you are absolutely not going to meet his optics right now.

MR: You aren’t being punished.

Well you deserve to be. You aren’t that much of an idiot, you know that everything what happened to him was entirely your fault, you know every way you could have derailed it before it reached such an ugly end, you know _exactly_ how much you deserve to be punished.

Mirage goes to one knee in front of you again. You still have your optics locked on the floor. He’s watching your face, you can tell, but you just keep staring downward. He reaches out and puts his hand to your cheek. For a moment you think he’s going to force you to look at him, but he just stays like that with you for a long moment.

MR: You went through something awful.  
MR: And someone who wanted to exploit that took advantage of you.

Right, just like no other bot in the history of the war has been been through anything bad, sure— You still can’t look at him. You manage, “That isn’t an excuse.”

MR: But it is an explanation.  
MR: You don’t carry responsibility for the decisions other mechs chose to make.  
MR: And you aren’t the only mech to have done things you regret in hindsight.

I could have stopped him, you don’t say. Called for help. Turned yourself in. Taken responsibility for your _own_ actions, and then you wouldn’t have to worry about what other people were doing because of you. You could have told Ironhide the truth at any time and stopped him. Mirage knows that, and his hand is still so gentle on your cheek.

You eventually whisper, “Why are you being nice to me?”

MR: Because I care about you.

He shouldn’t. He _shouldn’t._ You jerk your head away from his hand so you can curl forward even tighter. You can’t stand to look at him. You can’t stand to be _seen._ Why is he doing this for you? What have you done to deserve this, _any_ of this? At least when you thought you were being punished, you could understand _why._

Mirage doesn’t make a single move for a good klik. And even then he moves slowly. It’s good that he’s doing something, because you’re locked up too tight to do anything at all. He takes your face in both hands this time, his thumbs resting lightly against your cheeks. He leaves them there for a long moment. You don’t know what you’d say to him, and he hasn’t sent you any more comms, and the silence is so much you can hardly stand it.

You’re expecting it when he finally starts to turn your face upwards. You’re braced for him to drag you up until you’re forced to look him in the optics. You don’t want to. You think. You don’t know. It’s so hard to tell what you want anymore, and Mirage keeps refusing to give you what you _deserve._

But instead of making you look at him, he lifts your head the slightest bit, then his hands drift down to your shoulders and he nudges you up the smallest bit further. He takes his time, and you still can’t quite remember how to move on your own. But he does eventually get you upright again.

And then he kisses you. He bends in slowly, giving you plenty of time to see him coming. He steadies you with a hand on your cheek, and the kiss itself is shallow and undemanding. You still don’t manage to respond.

Mirage pulls back for a moment and looks at you. His other hand comes up to cup your face and he just— looks at you. You don’t know what he’s seeing. You don’t have any way to _hide._ It’s too much to handle, and you deactivate your optics. Like this, when he bends in to kiss you again, you manage to reciprocate a little. Badly. You haven’t been this bad at kissing in millions of years, but you don’t remember how to move, you don’t remember how to _think._

Besides, all this is just making you painfully aware of the charge you never stopped running. Which is the worst of you. How self-centered and entitled is it possible to be? You don’t deserve this, you don’t deserve _any of this,_ but you’re still trying to get off on it. Aren’t you.

You can’t stand waiting for Mirage to break the kiss this time. You jerk backwards. Not far, you can’t move far, but enough to pull away from the kiss. You still can’t handle reactivating your optics, even though your plating is already crawling with what’s going to happen, who’s going to touch you, what are they going to _do to you—_ But it’s worse to look at Mirage right now. He’s still right there in front of you, you can feel the heat coming off his frame and his hands are still on your cheeks. But he waits patiently for you to make the next move.

It’s an awkwardly long moment before you can manage words, but you eventually force out, “You don’t have to.”

MR: Do you want me to stop?

No. You should. By all rights, you should. Accepting this from him is hard enough, _wanting_ it is so much worse. It’s inexcusable. You have no right to expect anything from him right now. But you do.

MR: I need an answer for that question.  
MR: Do you want me to stop? 

You shake your head. No, you don’t want him to stop. You can’t even manage to cut this off when you know you ought to. _Pathetic._

Mirage closes the distance to kiss you again. You aren’t expecting it, and a surprised noise slips out of you before you can help yourself. He ignores that, and ignores how stupidly bad you still are at kissing. This is _kissing._ It’s the most basic thing, and you can’t even manage that much. But he patiently stays there with you. As it stretches longer, you— Some of the old rhythms come back to you. Your processor is still spinning in circles, but you’re at least managing to react to him. So you aren’t completely humiliating yourself. Just mostly.

But you can feel the kiss getting to you. The charge you got when he was buffing and polishing you was so nice and comfortable, and it hasn’t slipped from your frame, even through you’ve done absolutely nothing that should have kept it going. You can feel it building every time Mirage presses forward against you and your balance shifts in the ropes. Every time his mouth pulls away and then moves forward against yours again. Even little things, like the air from his vents and the way it changes as he moves. You can’t hear his fans like this, or any little noises he might be making. With your optics offline, everything comes down to touch, and you can’t stop being aware of every single place his frame is against yours.

This kiss doesn’t end as much as it just—pauses. Mirage is right up against you now, chest to chest, leaning into you hard enough that you can feel the ropes shift against your waist as you take his weight.

MR: What do you want next? 

And that— If you’d been managing to pull yourself together again, it all goes flying right out the window. You don’t even manage a real answer, all you can do is shake your head. Yes, even though you obviously have a charge. Yes, even though you’re— here. And no, you don’t want him to stop. Does any of that make sense? Absolutely not. You run through the options in your head, but there’s nothing that seems right. Nothing you deserve. Mirage repeats the question, but all you can do is helplessly shake your head.

Is that it? Have you officially ruined the scene? You’ve made a good effort to do that every step of the way so far, so you really shouldn’t be so surprised it finally worked out. Mirage is hesitating too. You keep your optics firmly off. You aren’t going to look him in the face right now, no matter what. He pets your finials, but he doesn’t say anything to break the awkward silence. Then—

MR: What if I wanted you to do something for me?

“ _Yes,”_ bursts out of you almost before you’re done processing the message. You haven’t even thought about what he’s probably looking for, but still yes. Whatever he wants from you, you’ll give it to him. He pets your finials a few more times, slow and thoughtful.

MR: And if I wanted to use your mouth?

“ _Please.”_

You should be looking at him right now. You should be trying to get some idea of how he’s feeling, what he’s thinking, what he wants from you. But you can’t quite bring yourself to turn on your optics.

Mirage’s weight shifts as he gets to his feet, but he doesn’t take his hands from your frame. He stays there for a long moment, still except for the fingers still stroking absently over your finials. His hands move to cup your face again.

MR: Optics on.  
MR: You’re going to upset yourself.

That almost makes you laugh. _Going to_ upset yourself? In the future tense? That’s a little late to the mark.

But he’s right about your optics. Not being able to hear was fine on its own. And you’ve loved having your optics off like this for millions of years, loved the way not being able to see or hear makes every touch so much more intense. But you can feel tiny little alien hands crawling over your plating, you can _feel_ it, even though you know they’re not here. But it’s. Not exactly easy to look at Mirage either.

You reluctantly drag your optics online. At least he’s not there right in front of you anymore. You don’t have to look him in the face.

And when your optics boot, the first very first you see is Mirage’s spike. You should have been expecting that, but you were so distracted that it does surprise a laugh out of you. You try to lean forward to him, but his hands on your face hold you back.

MR: I’m going to USE your mouth.  
MR: Is that still fine?

That sends a full body shiver down your frame. You’re even starting to grin again as you sit back on your heels. But you settle yourself down and open your mouth for him. He takes his spike in one hand and guides into you. But then his hands slide around to grip the outer edges of your finials. And he _uses_ you.

You’d move for him if you could. But between the ropes and the grip he has on you, there’s isn’t much you can do but sit there and let him move you himself. He isn’t being rough. But he isn’t being _gentle,_ and this is so, so much easier to handle. You can focus on how tight his fingers are against your frame, the way you have to relax your throat to take all of his spike. The constant movement, the push and pull on your finials and the way his spike pushes so deep into you and the way it pulls out again. This is exactly what you’ve been needing, just this, with no space to think past the moment.

It’s just so easy to lose yourself in this, the way you can stop thinking and just _exist._ Your optics start to drift offline at some point. You don’t even realize, until—

MR: Optics ON, I said.

Your optics jolt online. You’re knocked out of that lazy headspace and your processor is still trying to catch up, and without meaning to, you look up, and meet Mirage’s optics.

You can feel the overload starting to hit him. And you could let him just keep controlling you and finish in your mouth, but—

He isn’t expecting it when you jerk your head backwards, and his grip slips. You don’t go far. Only enough that his spike slips out of your mouth, just as the overload is taking him. Your optics are still locked with his as he overloads, and you can feel transfluid hit your face and chest, warm against your plating.

It would be nice to hear Mirage’s fans and know just how he felt about that. But what you feel from the air from his vents, that tells you enough. He actually looks away from you before you can get yourself to look up at him again. But as it happens, that’s just so he can step in even closer and push your face between his legs.

MR: That’s halfway there. 

You’re grinning again. This is exactly the sort of thing you feel best about right now. With his spike depressurized, you can mostly get at his valve. But the way your hands are tied behind your neck still doesn’t make it easy. No matter how far his legs are spread, your arms are still going to block you from getting in close, and you have to strain forward just to get your mouth on his array.

Mirage still has a good hold on your finials and is dragging you in tight against his hips. Your arms are up against his thighs and you can’t lean in any more yourself, but he keeps pulling you in further, pushing your arms back just enough to make your shoulders ache. But your mouth is on his valve, and that’s the only thing that really matters to you right now.

You can barely reach far enough to get your glossa inside him at all. That has to feel like more of a tease than anything else, but if you can ride his first overload you might be able to finish him a second time, even like this. You push forward into him as far as you can, and press your glossa up against his node.

If he makes a noise, you can’t hear it. But you feel his hands clench tight on your finials and his hips jerk forward against your face. And he keeps pushing forward against you. He leans into you hard enough that you start to sit back on your heels. His hands are still holding you in tight against him while he grinds down against your mouth. You do your best to keep your glossa on his node, but as he leans in harder and harder, you think you might be able to—

When you get your mouth on his node and very carefully _suck,_ he overloads hard. His hands are locked so hard around your finials that it’s almost painful, and he’s brought enough of his weight to bear that you can feel every little way he shifts. You just do your best to keep your mouth moving against him, your glossa on his node, his valve, leaving clumsy, open-mouthed kisses against everything you can reach while he shakes above you.

You let him push you away when it finally ends. You wouldn’t have minded staying like that for the rest of the evening. It’s much easier to take than— than anything else has been, really. Your optics are online, but you keep them pointed determinedly at the floor. At least when he was using you like that, you had some structure for how to react to him, what he would want from you. Outside that, you’re as lost as you were before.

Mirage steps away from you for a moment, and when he comes back, he reaches down to take your chin and turn your face up towards him. You turn your optics off without any conscious thought, and then wince. He said to keep them on, but—

You’re braced for the order to bring them back online, but It never comes. Instead, you just feel the touch of a cloth against your cheek, and Mirage begins to clean off your face.

He’s gentle, but thorough. He takes care of your face and helm, then lets go of your chin and moves down to your neck and shoulders. You haven’t had your optics offline quite long enough to convince yourself that there are aliens touching you while you aren’t watching, but you can feel it starting to get to you. So you reluctantly bring them back online. But Mirage isn’t forcing you to look at him, he lets you look away, down to where he’s wiping your frame clean. The two of you just sit in silence and watch him work.

He isn’t just cleaning you off, he’s undoing the ropes as he goes too. Your hands are still tied behind your neck, but he undoes every tie as he goes, taking a single rope, unwrapping it from around your frame, looping it around his hands, and setting it aside. Then he goes over that section of the frame with the cleaning cloth, slow and careful. And then he moves to the next rope.

It’s a lazy, hypnotic rhythm. It’s so easy to just kneel there and watch his hands and not think past that moment. You don’t even know how long it takes for him to work his way down your chest and stomach to your legs. But he’s undoing the ropes along your thighs when he comms you again.

MR: You’re still running hot.  
MR: I’m guessing you still won’t have an answer if I ask about what you want.  
MR: But what if I had something I wanted to do for you?

You’re—torn. You are still running a charge. That was something that never stopped. But that doesn’t mean someone needs to _do_ anything about it, and you still aren’t in a position where you should be asking for anything. Except you aren’t asking, Mirage is offering, But if you— Just saying yes and going with this isn’t any better than asking for yourself, it means you’re still making the same imposition—

So you don’t exactly manage an answer. But Mirage doesn’t demand one. Your processor spins in circles as he finishes with your thighs and moves to untie your ankles. It’s easier to think once you don’t have to look at him, but you still don’t have a response by the time he finishes with the last rope on your legs. You’re expecting him to untie your hands and then— the scene is over, you suppose. But he stands up, and from the corner of your optic, you can see him take a few steps away,

MR: Lie down for me.

You’re not sure what he’s planning, but you lie down on your back, your hands still bound behind your neck. From this angle you can see him turn back around with the buffer, paint, and polish from before.

Mirage settles on the floor next to you and begins to work on your lower legs, everywhere he couldn’t get to with the way you were kneeling before. It’s the same quiet pattern as before. You can’t see his hands this time, but you can watch Mirage. It’s easier when you’re not looking at him head-on. You can just watch him bending over the work, look at the way his mouth sets when he’s concentrating hard on something. You can even see his faint, satisfied smile when he runs his fingers along your plating, testing the new finish.

MR: Turn over.

You can’t watch him from this angle. But it’s almost even more relaxing this way, when you can’t do anything except rest your forehead against the floor and just…. let him work. There really is nothing to distract you from the sensation this way. You don’t have anything to look at to distract you from the smooth hum of the buffer over your plating, the quick little touches as Mirage touches up his initial work, or the cool, soothing spread of the paint and polish.

Your charge is building again. Maybe you ought to do something about that—Soon. But as long as Mirage is offering this, you don’t want him to stop this unless he has to. You can just keep ignoring the charge. That’s what you were doing anyways.

It gets to be more and more as Mirage slowly works his way up the back of your thighs. You aren’t sure whether you think you’re _really_ managing to hide it from him or if you’re just in denial because you don’t want the polishing to stop. But you aren’t managing to hide much of anything at all.

MR: Did you want me to do anything about that?

You jump guiltily. Do anything about what? You don’t have an anything that he needs to take care of. But before you can reply, he comms you again.

MR: You might not be able to hear it.  
MR: But your fans are sending some very clear messages.

Your plating burns. You can’t believe you missed that. And if you try to deny it, you’ll look even more ridiculous than you already do. You’re still trying to think of some way to explain this away, or at least make it clear that Mirage doesn’t need to do anything about it, but it’s so hard to think with him smoothing polish up along the very top edge of your thigh plating, Every time he touches you, you lose your train of thought, and your charge builds that little bit more. Even after he’s finished with the last of the polish and sets it aside, he brushes his hand along the back of your leg and you struggle not to react.

MR: I don’t mind taking care of this.  
MR: I’d like to do this for you.

Another deliberate brush of his fingers along your plating.

MR: But I’m not going any further without explicit permission.

You shouldn’t. You don’t deserve, even if you _want—_ But he wants to do this. Even though you don’t deserve it, and both of you know just how much you don’t deserve it. But if he wants it and you want it, even though you know you _shouldn’t—_

You’re glad you can hide your face against the floor as you force yourself to whisper, “Please.”

There’s stillness, and for one awful moment you think he’s going to order you to tell him exactly what you want. You can’t tell if it’s the worst thing or the best thing that you can’t look at him at all like this. But then his hand is between your legs, pressed warm and firm against your plating, It surprises a gasp out of you, and you should be embarrassed, but you can’t pull your mind away from how you want _more._

MR: Open for me.

It’s so much easier when Mirage tells you what to do, and you can just _do_ it without second-guessing yourself over every little detail. Your panel slides open under his hand. Your spike pressurizes, pressing against the floor. But you’re even more desperate to have something for your valve. Mirage’s fingers are resting against you, but they aren’t _in_ you. So you try to push back against them, get your aft into the air, anything—

With your arms tied, you can’t get the leverage to move. You manage to lift your aft a little, but Mirage just moves with you at first. You don’t know what he wants, what he wants you to do, anything, you don’t know what he’s waiting for— But he only leaves you to struggle for a moment before he slips two fingers into you,

You almost lose track of yourself with how _much_ that is. It shouldn’t be, either it’s because it’s been so long for you, or it’s because of everything between you and him. But it’s so intense that you can barely remember how to think. Mirage moves slowly with you, not as fast as he knows you can take. But just fast enough that you can’t quite manage to scrape together your thoughts.

And you lose the last shreds of your self-control embarrassingly soon. It’s hardly any time at all before you realize you’re begging Mirage for _more._ You should be ashamed of how you’ve forgotten everything you’d been thinking about what you _deserved_ and not imposing— But if he’s willing to give you this much, you’re desperate, you’re so desperate for just a little more—

Your face is pressed into the floor with how hard you’re fighting to push your aft into Mirage’s hands. He still hasn’t given you anything more than those two fingers. It’s so good, just not quite _enough._ You don’t have anything for your node, and with your aft in the air, your spike isn’t even making contact with the floor anymore. Mirage’s free hand is smoothing down your back, steady and soothing, but it isn’t what you’re so desperate for.

So when he moves that hand from your back and reaches down beneath you to take your spike in hand, it’s so _much_ that it brings the overload crashing in on you out of nowhere. He barely manages two strokes of your spike before the overload hits you. He stays with you though the whole thing, his hand on your spike and his fingers pressing in and out of you, drawing the overload out as long as possible, until it’s almost pain instead of pleasure.

When it finally ends, leaving you exhausted and hollowed out, all you want to do is collapse where you’re lying. But Mirage doesn’t let you. You think you might be arguing out loud—incoherently—but his hands on your frame are insistent, and he doesn’t let you be until he’s managed to roll you over so you’re lying on your back.

MR: I don’t think you’d enjoy it much later if you lay down in the mess now.

Oh. You. Suppose that’s fine, then. You still aren’t managing to process much. You definitely aren’t much help as Mirage lifts you far enough to untie your hands, plus once that’s done, you don’t quite remember what you’re supposed to _do_ with them. So Mirage is also the one to take your hands from behind your neck and lay them at your sides. You can see him up above, looking down at where you’re lying as he settles you. It takes you much too long to realize he’s put your head in his lap.

MR: Audio on for now, I think.

Oh, that’s—another thing you’d forgotten. When you enable audio input again, it takes you a few nanokliks to realize that noise you’re hearing is your own fans. Whatever, you’re too tired to be embarrassed right now. You can see Mirage lifting something into view. A tool? What’s he—?

He brings the buffer into position and says, “Though you may want to turn your optics off for the moment.”

He’s right. You don’t have any chance to reply, though, because he’s already started buffing your face and helm. And even as amazing as the other buffing felt, this feels ten times as good. He’s always careful with this tool, but he’s even more careful on this delicate plating, It’s the most luxurious thing you’ve felt in ages, and it’s so easy to let yourself drift away and just lose yourself in the sensation.

One of your hands comes up to—not touch Mirage’s leg. You remember yourself at the last moment. But you kind of, Just leave it there, up next to your head, barely any distance between your hand and his leg. He doesn’t hesitate for even a moment with the buffer, and you gradually convince yourself that he doesn’t mind,

And he’s even doing the detailing work on your finials. You haven’t gotten treatment like this in years. You let yourself just get swept away in it, and you think you’re only half awake when he finally breaks the silence.

He asks, “Is it safe to assume you aren’t done for the night?”

You take a moment to remember where you are and who you’re with. Because of _course_ you’re not done if there’s the possibility of more— But, “You don’t need to worry about—”

“Because,” he says, “I can’t remember a single time in the past where you were ever interested in stopping after a single overload.”

Your plating burns. Selfish _and_ self-centered, But at least he isn’t talking about that like it’s a bad thing. And of course you can’t quite handle coming up with a real response. You’ve gotten yourself locked up over what you _deserve_ and what he _wants_ and everything complicated and unhelpful that’s already made this evening harder than it had to be. So you don’t quite manage a real answer. But you nudge your hand that smallest bit closer to him so that it actually touches his leg, the back of your fingers curled against his plating.

And you can hear the smile in his voice when he says, “Then let me just finish with the polish, and we can go ahead and figure that out.”

**Author's Note:**

> [Tumblr](http://spockandawe.tumblr.com/post/161458710891/tarnished-silver-spockandawe-the-transformers)


End file.
